There is no crime if I don’t show itFor it’s a long time since I’ve been poetSince January, one poem has partedFrom my heart for another departedThen career and need (and laziness)Swapped verse and rhyme for video lensWhere interpretation of life and thingsChoirs majestic to butterfly wingsSunset’s flames, porpoise and minksDriftwood beaver, daughter and teacherHave been my new poetic featuresAlmost a lap around our sun, inspires I to return,Ball’s point hurtles over this paperAs I pay homage to Lady Poet and my SaviourWith my guilt panged traditional behaviourI’m instantly filled with power and the prideThat she’s always smouldering deep insideAwaiting connections between our sensesShe suggests to us possible versesThrough verb and metaphor she immersesRepair from grief, to us poets, she blessesInterrogates inner so outer confessesCausing zoom and macro, elegant pressesUnfaithful? I don’t think that is really trueJudge for yourself at a screen near you

I tapped cautiously my finger. You scurried that way, only you can do. Upside down on the bathroom ceiling, making me remember your intricacies. All woven in nature’s genial design of air expelling hairs on your feet that allow you traction anywhere.

And those eyes; unique exoplanets and exotic in their own right. Hazel opals with a blunt logo of your former self. I can see that in your deathly iris. Inside, infinitely black, endless, yet calm. Perhaps where you departed so easily to, and surprising…no…shocking me.

Or was it I you?

By falling with your half grown new tail. First, onto my lens. Then, I studied your featherweight in my palm. Intrigued and inspiring me to interpret you with this poem come epitaph. When perhaps your days doing your duty were more deserving of a psalm.

You were always going in to the light. In this life for bugs and now perhaps immortality…that makes me smile a bit. Thinking of you in that heavenly place where all the ghosts of your victims await you to devour them all over again.